This is the third time I sit to write you a poem
Each time its been too carefully planned, even now –planned.
I sat with thoughts to say when what I need to give is feelings.
I’m waiting here with the wrong paper, the wrong pen, the long distance
For the feelings to be given words without my understanding,
I’m waiting for a progression to occur within this poem, to be taken somewhere.
Flashy bits and pieces and words that beat out of me, connected but seemingly not so.
I find myself asking for forgiveness, knowing its guaranteed to be there waiting.
I haven’t gotten far from the beginning yet, I’m saying the words before they’re written.
To many people I’ve said, “with you I’m not afraid to not know.”
But it’s just me, then, knowing, pretending not to and giving comfort.
With you I’m not afraid not to know
Because we’re waiting for the same thing, ill-equipped and far away.
Armed with the same trials, but different stories and perspectives.
I miss the way we finish conversations, content to not know –waiting.
Through the slow ordeal of living we remember our patience yielding smiles.
This time my aim isn’t to move you to tears or sympathy
I’m not struggling to write for me through you.
Meaningless things can flow through me like wildflowers growing.
This is taking all too long, and I lack the contention to get to the end.
Each time my poems are one emotion, I can't offer that to you.
Like my happiest moments of layered feelings, it's all too clearly
The way we are, together, patient, waiting.
And I promise when I’m old enough I’ll finish this poem tomorrow.